The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“I’mm gunna to maake some pancakes.” Courtney drunkenly slurred.

“YES!” My agreement came quick and decisive.

Oh man, it was so simple. So AWESOME! Pancakes. I hadn’t had pancakes in like forever.

In the kitchen Courtney systematically proceeded through the cabinets by opening the ones where she thought the skillet might be at random. Starting with the ones above the sink.

“Oh my god, are you like hiding these things?” She moaned, not finding it aaaaanywhere.

‘OH jeeessus lemme.” Jillian wobbled to her feet and had that sudden lurching feeling that she more drunk than she thought. The comfy living room couch offered warmth and stability. She took the blankets with her around her shoulders as she stood up.

You know that feeling? Where it’s only when you stand up, do you realise how much sitting down helped make you feel sober. It was hard work stumbling over to the kitchen to help her friend.

“Out ouf the way—” Jillian playfully bowled through the kitchen. They swatted at each other like kittens.

Courtney and I had been sharing the apartment for about a year now. This would be our second Halloween soon.

“The eggs are in here . . .” Jillian went straight to opening the fridge.

“No, the pans- I found them.” Courtney emerged from the large lower cabinets under the stove, skillet in hand.

Oooohhhh the fridge felt niiiiice. Misty cool. Jillian just kind of hung there on the door. Allowing the chilly air from inside the refrigerator waft over her. She took her time pulling out the eggs and butter.

“Mush mush mush . . .” Courtney mumbled to herself stirring a big mass of pancake mix and oils.

It was past 11 on a Saturday night and the soundtrack to Hamilton played on repeat at indecent volumes. Courtney and I were still not exhausted of what amounted to ‘history-nerd’ karaoke. It started with a three day weekend, a bottle of prosecco, a sparkling rosé, a half-finished Grey Goose, something red—and a LOT of chaser.

We’d been friends since at least high school and moved-in together after college. This was pretty much our idea of a great time.

Going to bars n’ shit is expensive. And loud. And crowded. And full of gross weirdos. And you need to arrange a ride. There was absolutely nothing wrong with staying home and getting fuckin’ ridiculkous with your bestie on the weekends.

“Gimme a drink . . .” Courtney was slouched over her mixing bowl in a most unladylike manner.

It was like the Hamilton soundtrack was ghosting her, Patrick Swayze-style, through the stirring process. Something strangely sensual about it. Mushing the oils into the powdery mix, like churning butter or sculpting clay. These pancakes were going to be fantastic. Breakfast for dinner was the only way to live.

“A little vodka . . .” Jillian was doing a different kind of mixing.

“Some juice . . .” Blueberry smoothie was her favorite.

This week had been fucking brutal. Multiple twelve hour days, impossible deadlines. Just yesterday Jillian walked into a meeting certain those papers she was supposed to complete were due next Friday and not Friday-Friday. Like not today- like right now.

In reality she had just sort of assumed the date would ‘of course’ be moved out of respect to her aggrieved state. In her exhaustion that just kind of made sense.

She didn’t didn’t get off until 9:00 last night and nobody was particularly sympathetic. The assignment wasn’t that much of a big deal but it just went to show how much her brain had been turning to clay this week.

Drinking made it all better.

“Aaaand first one down . . .” Courtney drooled the pancake batter from her bowl onto the griddle. It hissed and bubbled.

She was a high energy drunk. She didn’t turn off on alcohol, she turned on. She was only a little tipsy and superbly proud of her misshapen sizzling lumps of golden brown flapjacks.

“What do you want to watch?” Jillian called from the couch. Comfortable in her PJs, polishing off Big-Gulp quantities of fruit smoothie.

“Vanderpump?” Courtney called, flipping the pancake pellets onto a plate.

“Seen it.” Jillian called from the couch. “Bachelor?”

“Seen it.” The larger pancake ‘nuggets’ were beginning to finish, they too got flipped onto the plate.

“Chopped? TopChef? Nailed it?” Jillian offered, not really feeling any of them.

“Hmmm . . .” Courtney grunted, temporarily lost in her task.

“Frasier, The Office . . .” Jillian began listing NBC comedy standbys. 30 Rock.

“Mmmm . . .” Courtney communicated with her mouth full of hot pancake. She obviously wasn’t interested in something she would have to pay attention to.

It should be mentioned that cooking while intoxicated can be very dangerous. At precisely that moment, the smoke alarm came to life with full urgency. At some point the friendly steam coming off the griddle turned black and was billowing up into the vents.

“JESUS- FUCK CHRIST! WHAT IS THAT?!?!” Jillian yelled, hands clasped over her ears.

The fire alarms did exactly what they are designed to do. They flooded the air with horrible, unbearable, shrieking panic that it pierced through your ability to think about anything but escaping the sound of that noise. Turning it off. Shutting it out.

“WHERE IS IT COMING FROM?!!” Courtney yelled, her eyes squeezed shut.

“I CAN’T REACH IT!” Jillian swiped at the alarm, affixed to the highest part of the ceiling.

“I GOT THE STEP LADDER!” Courtney snapped it into place and jumped up.

“YOU GOT IT?” Jillian, still yelling, only a foot or two below her. The siren was so fucking loud.

“ONE SEC—” Courtney pawed at it. Unsuccessfully trying to open it or pry it from the roof.

“I need a skewdriver or—”

“WHAT?!”

“I NEED A SCREWDRIVER OR SOMETHING!”

“ONE SEC!” I had one in my room. When Jillian first moved in, her dad gave her a bunch of tools under the assumption that she would ‘need’ them. They were on a shelf in her closet and she ran to get them.

There was a crash from the front door strong enough to crack the frame. A splitery gash denting it inwards around the lock.

The two of us froze in fear. There were men shouting outside, ‘AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN! ONE-TWO-THREE!—”

BOOM! and the whole wall trembled. There was now a sizeable hole in the front door.

“What the fuck—” Courtney managed to get out before a third crash busted out the lock and a whole platoon of fire fighters roared in through the breach.

“Sorry! Sorry ! Sorry—” Jillian shouted in a panic as twenty something men flooded their small apartment.

Immediately they were all over her. Snatching her up in their arms and carrying her over their shoulder into her bedroom like she weighed nothing at all. They were outfitted in heavy stomping boots, black flame retardant leather trousers, bright red suspenders, and stripes of yellow reflective cloth that made them look like fire fighters from out of a children’s coloring book.

“Sorry! We didn’t mean to!” Jillian breathlessly explained to the firemen almost twice her size and finely muscled. None of them wore shirts and all of them were tremendously shredded. She was surrounded in her bedroom by fuzzy handsome naked chests and powerful masculine forearms.

OMG- Mom is going to kill me!

Thoughts raced through her head so fast she could barely keep track of them. The fire alarm was still screaming in her ears full pitch. Chirping at decibels so high and irritating it made her want to claw her hair out. She could hear men blasting flame suppressing foam all over the kitchen. The fireman carrying her pressed her so hard and close against his body, it felt like he were made of hot steel.

Like his body was made of lava. Burning hot and firm as metal. The body of a man who worked out six hours a day. The clean musk of a freshly showered Adonis. She was a leaf in his arms, face flat-up against his pecs, his heart pounding away like a madman.

“Are you all right?” He asked, sitting me down on the bed.

“Yeah, we just—” Before I could answer he was already shining a light in my eyes. Right exactly on the pupil.

“Have you been drinking?”

“I- I—” Jillian stammered. Everything was happening so quickly. There wasn’t time to think of whether to lie or not. A strange authority figure was demanding to know if she had been drinking.

“Alright, lay back.” Temporarily blinding me with a penlight, checking my pupils. Guiding me to the bed.

“Have you been drinking?” He repeated.

“Yeaaah . . .” They could probably smell it on her breath, or at least see the empty bottles if they had eyes.

“Okay take this, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“Okay—” Jillian started before he pressed an oxygen mask to her face.

“Feeling better?”

Jillian nodded gratefully in response. Things were clearing up. She no longer felt cold or groggy. The sickening feeling in her belly died down and the unease about vomiting she had been suppressing all night disappeared. The room stopped spinning.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” He held up two fingers right in front of my face. The other firemen hovered all around us on the bed.

“Two, but—” The fire alarm was still going off, I could barely hear him. The alarm was so loud. She could hear it in her mind. It was all she could think about.

Another whiff of the gas and that penlight shining in my eyes.

The paramedics had such beautiful eyes. Wonderful charming faces. They were both excellent kissers. Just one kiss had left her gasping and they gave her the air again. The breathing mask had a minty taste to it, like toothpaste.

The boiling in her guts calmed down and the sting of bile in her mouth vanished. The feeling of fuzziness was clearing up. The hands cupping her tits through her shirt were really good at playing with her nipples.

“What day is it? Who is the current president?” The firemen asked.

“Saturday! I don’t know—” It was so LOUD, it was driving her crazy! Everything around her was going insane. There were all these men in her apartment. They all didn’t have shirts on. They were all the most fit, toned, manly, confident, handsome men Jillian had ever seen!

And they just kept shining that light in my eyes and asking me stupid questions and they would turn that fucking alarm off-

Jillian realised she was alone in her room wearing nothing but some loose PJs surrounded by the hottest guys she’d ever seen in her entire life. Making out with a couple of hot paramedics and getting fingered by a handsome fireman. They were even letting her feel up their dicks, which were shockingly large.

Unzipping their pants, they were eye-popping. There was no way she could deepthroat all of them.

“You’ve really got to be more careful. Operating the stove while drunk is VERY irresponsible.” Somehow his voice came clear and true through the din. It sailed through the alarm like a ship through the water.

“It won’t happen again . . .” Jillian gave him a contrite pout.

Omg he was hot. Her last boyfriend had been literally years ago. It wouldn’t be too slutty if she just took off her top. They weren’t wearing shirts either. Her mouth watered.

Wait . . . Jillian thought slowly. She had never done that to a guy. She was twenty something and still never given head. It just hadn’t . . . come up for her.

Yet she could see it plainly. Her lips vacuum sucking an oily footlong monster penis. A massive, strong, dignified penis—her drool a lubricating it’s length. Twisting and swirling her tongue, his legs shuttering, jizz boiling down her throat.

After that she let him finish all over her face. Closing her eyes feeling him splash all over her neck and chin and tits and face and catching some in her mouth. Her open smiling mouth, both hands filled with more dicks. Jerking them off two at a time. Blowing in her hair, across her cheeks.

“FUCK- you’re so good at this!” One of the men wheezed.

“Thanks!” Jillian beamed back. This was way more fun than getting drunk, she thought as she felt the dick in her mouth quake with release. Fishing it out and gobbling another, feeling the it sputter out more gobs on the way out.

“Yoo-youuu too—” Jillian panted, cumming herself for a second time. They had shucked off her panties and sat her down on one guy’s lap. His hands were strong and thick and expertly going to town.

They tasted incredible. It felt incredible. Unreal. It savaged her to cum as she did. Like taking big ice-cream scoops out of her brain, leaving behind craters of feel-good music.

“What’s your name?” They asked, the fire alarm louder than sin.

That light in her eyes again, bouncing rainbows off her retina. Shining right on the optic nerve where every memory of herself was made naked.

“Jill-i-i—” But she was cumming too hard. Seeing stars.

“What’s your name?” Another firefighter was straddling her chest, running his dick between her boobs and cumming all around her neck.

“FUCK ME!” Jillian hollered, spreading herself. Desperation clear in her eyes.

They were gentle. They were hard. They were cruel and they were kind. Going on for days, the men trading off and working in tandem. Pushing themselves to the limit then switch out for someone fresh.

Never letting up. Never allowing her to rest. Relentlessly pushing her forward. Into another orgasm. Another mind crushing climax. She would cum and her clitty would buzz and always there was a terrible furious anger, as bright and sensitive as an exploding star—and still they would keep at her. Keep fucking her. Grabbing that brain-itchy feeling with both hands and choke it into a euphoric frenzy.

When she came her pussy squeezed so fucking hard it was like it was trying to squeeze the life out of dicks. She would squeeze and clamp and bathe them in hot juices in a merciless kung fu grip.

OH she had perfect control! Jillian had never felt this powerful! Never felt this kind of casual, instinctive, biological dominance over a man—their hands around her throat, their cum all over her face, fucking her into oblivion—but the way she could just cork them up inside her and watch as their eyes rolled up into their heads and their legs shook so hard they couldn’t stand. Spraying helplessly inside her, how funny they looked.

The fire alarm tickling like bells.

I could hear Courtney getting fucked in the other room. Yelling her head off and announcing her cums, which were constant. Through the wall it sounded like they were building something in there. Hammers banging wildly and Courtney’s throaty howling for MORE! or HARDER! Choked girly squealling letting the whole building know she was cumming and oh god they all felt so fucking amazing.

Jillian wasn’t a virgin, but she’d never done anal before. Never even really seriously considered it. Didn’t even recognise that it was happening until she felt the curious poking of an oily cockhead gently sliding up her ass.

There was no discomfort, no pain. With a cock in her mouth, one in both hands, and riding a third beneath her, she couldn’t see the guy behind her—but he turned out to be tender, slow and just as huge and built as all the rest. The feeling of being filled and full was indescribable.

The ringing in her ears never went away. She had fistfuls of chest hair and the hard bodies of burly firemen pressed against her from every side. Pulling out long enough only to let her body squirt, her pussy spitting up silly horny spouts of fluid—pulsing and grasping at nothing, only to be filled seconds later. Again and again.

Jillian had no idea she could cum so much. One orgasm ended and another would start. Blending together. Gushing pints of the stuff on the floor as they continued to plow her butt and jizz down her throat.

She could feel their cum running off her back and splashing against her face. They all had different flavors. This one tastes like Jolly Ranchers. This one tastes like roast beef. This one smells like sawdust. This one like rum. Jillian loved hearing them grunt and shiver as their dicks burst inside her.

She only had one or two boyfriends before and Sex was always just geeky squirming. She had never felt what it was like to be sandwiched between two polynesian strongmen twice her size. Dicks as big as her arms.

She’d never been with a black man before. Or a mexican. Or a jewish boy. Or a big-dicked Italian. Or an Asian. Or a man with fiery red hair and an irish brogue. Never with a pair of blonde, blue-eyed Swedish twins or a perfumed Arabian prince. Big men, skinny men, thick-bodied Bradleys and svelte gentlemen Cumberbatches.

It had never been this good. NEVER this thorough. Jillian didn’t have to say anything but words of encouragement or praise. Perhaps some disbelief at their abilities. She didn’t have to spend time explaining her parts to a boy- they already knew what she wanted. What she liked. As if by instinct they would trade places, continually thrusting into her like machine parts.

And all the time that alarm howling in her ears. The room cast in alternating red and blue from sirens on the fire truck parked right outside, illuminating the darkness with flashes of monochromatic madness. Her’s twisted body stretched between a dozen men. Dicks pistoning out of her every hole, her body streaked with cum that glowed in the dark.

She could feel the climax building before it struck her. Like a stampede. A panic seized her. This wasn’t reality. Firemen didn’t work like this. It was all crazy. She couldn’t cum like this- no one could.

Who were these men? Why were there so many? They were standing shoulder to shoulder, rotating in. Working in tandem to make her cum.

The alarms BLARING- sound pushing out the air, making it hard to breathe.

Hard to see, hard to think, dicks blowing down her throat, in her face, in her pussy, across her back, in her hair—when she closed her eyes colors exploded. A whole new world of terrifying geometry took shape. Fractals of astonishing vividness cascaded all around her.

She could feel another cum coming. Raging at her. Bearing down on her like a wild animal. A beast. A slobbering monster, it’s hooves chipping the pavement. Eyes made of fire it’s anger terrifying to behold.

When the orgasms became too much, when her kicking and screaming got too violent- they pinned her down with their massive bodies and let her ride it out. Sputtering like a slut, her pussy exploding. Spitting up girlcum like a drooling bitch. Like a whore. The room flashing RED / BLUE / RED / BLUE—her eyelids flickering.

That pen light again. Shining right in her eyes, pupils wide as quarters. The alarm so loud her skull was vibrating. She was a slut. A desperate silly ridiculous slutty slut made for unspeakable sexual carnage. All these men, every one of them, made her so horny it was fucking retarded. She was cumming so hard her teeth chattered. She wanted more, this wasn’t even close to enough. A horny ridiculous fucking slut. A fucking slutty slut sex bitch-

Jillian woke up with a start. The alarm clock beeping 8:00 am. She was in her bed, alone.

Her legs felt stiff and unnatural. She got up slowly and just kind of took in the room. There were streaks of cum everywhere. On the walls, the ceiling, all over the floor. Her desk, keyboard, and computer monitor lay in ruins. The windows practically painted white from the inside. With the birds chirping and morning traffic roaring by her window, Jillian felt an uncanny calm.

She eventually eased off the bed and waddled over to the living room. Her whole body felt sore. Beat up. Her pussy still flushed and aching. It felt sore and tender as if . . . well . . . as if she had just fucked like a hundred guys in a row. Her fingers crackled with dry cum, her tummy and face glazed like a doughnut.

It should have been gross, but it was oddly comforting. Last night wasn’t just some crazy dream. There was evidence of it everywhere. In between her fingers.

She rubbed her hands together, breaking off shards of it like peanut brittle. From her other encounters with cum in the past, this should have been horrifying. Instead, it smelled like morning coffee and tasted just as sweet. Multiple times, Jillian vowed to go clean herself up in the bathroom but somehow managed to choose ‘sucking her fingers clean’ instead. The dry cum on her belly proved just as delicious.

There was snoring coming from behind the couch.

Courtney had fallen asleep on the carpet in the living room where they left her. Mouth wide and her breathing growling like an old lawn mower. Thick gobs of cum still oozing out her holes. Stuck to the floor like some Jackson Pollock art installation. A big smile spread across her face.

There was a handwritten note on the keystand near the front door. It’s frame still broken from last night. Jillian walked over to the card and turned it over. Handwritten, signed by what looked like a hundred names.

“Wasszat?” Courtney woke herself up with a horsey snort. Blinking and surveying her own state on the floor.

“I guess they left it . . .” Jillian never walked around the apartment naked, but after last night, she just left a little too tired for clothes. They didn’t really seem to matter.

“Wutz it say . . .” Courtney searched around for her glasses. The rug was crusty with jizz. Trying to sit up one of her hands instinctively went to sooth her pussy. Her clit beedy and red, her pink walls still trembling with need.

“We uhh . . .” Jillian read it again.

There were a few tersely worded warnings about the dangers of reckless homecooking. As well as an invoice.

“We owe them ten thousand dollars?”

“WHAT?!”